Day 61 – Hour 013 The Body That Carries the Mission

Day 61 – Hour 013

The Body That Carries the Mission

The walk from Nolve's shop to Facility 8 gave Nemi just enough time to brace himself. The file remained unread in his back pocket, bending gently with every step. He'd skimmed the edges with his fingers more than once, tempted to tear the seal and scan its contents, but he wasn't ready yet. Not mentally. Not emotionally. Information always had a price. He could feel the weight of what Nolve expected in return beginning to settle like dust on his shoulders. Let it wait.

Facility 8 didn't stand out in the way other buildings tried to. It wasn't loud. It wasn't desperate for attention. If anything, it hid itself in plain sight—just another faceless warehouse crouched between stacks of crumbling tenements and rusted fencing. But now that he knew, he could never unsee the subtle giveaways: the impenetrable gate, the security guard who didn't glance up once from his clipboard but still unlocked the door just as Nemi reached for it.

Inside, the transformation was complete. What had once been some industrial husk now breathed with a quiet, formidable rhythm. Light spilled in through high windows onto polished concrete. Faint music echoed through the cavernous space, pulsing low, never intrusive. A small reception counter was manned by no one. His membership card—embedded with some tech he didn't understand—was enough to get him inside.

He passed the entry corridor, eyes sweeping across the gym. Everything was functional, clean, and built for people who didn't come to socialize. There were machines for resistance and strength training, mats for floor work, punching bags, treadmills, pull-up bars, climbing ropes, and even a lane pool set into the far corner with a sealed glass partition. A separate wing led off toward what looked like showers and lockers.

Before he could decide where to start, a woman in a slate-gray tracksuit approached. She had a clipboard, a name badge—Dr. M. Riell, Nutrition & Physical Optimization—and a faintly military bearing. She looked Nemi up and down with the frankness of someone used to dealing with bodies like instruments.

"You're Nemi?" she asked. No warmth. Just confirmation.

He nodded.

"Good. Let's do an initial assessment."

Within minutes, she had him standing barefoot on a scale, fingers on metal pads, spine straight. Numbers flickered across a small digital screen. She did show him the results, but she didn't have to.

"You're twenty-one pounds underweight. Bone density slightly below average. Muscle mass suboptimal. Hydration low. You've been starving—low-grade, probably for years. Don't argue."

"I wasn't going to." 

She gave a short nod of approval.

"Good. We'll correct it. Come."

Dr. Riell led him through a side corridor into a white-walled kitchen where a broad-shouldered man in an apron stood humming as he chopped vegetables with the precision of a surgeon. He looked up when Nemi entered and beamed.

"Ah! The new champion. I've got your profile. Sit, sit. You need food designed to rebuild the foundation."

"Champion?"

"You'll get used to the sarcasm," Riell said, not looking up from her clipboard.

The chef—called Jules—slid a plate in front of him. It looked… simple. Grilled fish, soft rice, steamed greens. A protein shake on the side. Nemi hesitated.

"I already ate."

Jules raised a brow. "Not today, you didn't. Not this. Eat."

He took a bite, then another. His body responded immediately. The fatigue in his limbs softened. His stomach didn't lurch or cramp—this wasn't like the street food he rationed in oily wrappers. It felt like something healing.

When he was done, Riell handed him a printed schedule.

"This is your 28-day rebuild plan. Daily caloric minimums, sleep targets, mobility exercises, weight milestones, and required water intake. Your only job is to follow it."

There was a silence. Then Nemi folded the paper and tucked it into his pocket.

"I'll follow it."

She looked satisfied.

"You'll find a locker assigned to your name. Shower access is open. Pool's cold, but functional. Trainers rotate based on goals—one of us is always on-site. Don't wander into the basement wing."

Nemi's eyes flicked up. "Why not?"

"That's for members with different contracts."

He didn't ask further.

In the shower room, he stood under the hot water longer than he intended. Steam curled around the edges of his face as he stared at the tiled wall, mind flickering back to the Club's text, the envelope, the challenge. There was something unnerving about it all—how efficiently the Club anticipated every need. Every pressure point. How the trainer and the chef and the rooms he hadn't even entered yet were already folded into this path they'd laid out for him.

But they hadn't sent him here just to get strong. They wanted to see what he'd do with strength.

He dressed in the clean set of gym clothes folded neatly in his locker, exhaled slowly, and stepped back into the main training hall. The world outside hadn't changed. But he had. Or at least, he was starting to.

He looked toward the windows. Twenty-eight days.

Whatever came next, he'd be ready.